Join me on the front porch swing, where we'll watch the world go by and take the time to enjoy life's little pleasures, like donuts on the porch. (Speaking of, do you have donuts? Please bring them with you. Crumbs are not a problem here). Oh. And I'll make this up as I go along, okay?

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

If you have followed my blog for any length of time, you know that I have a wee bit of a crush on Christian Bale. And Hugh Jackman. And Paolo Nutini. And, yes, okay, Chauncey Chocodile (it takes a while to eat a Chocodile - if you catch my drift, and I think you do).

That's a pretty prestigious list of hotness and/or delicious Hostess snack cake peddlers. I honestly didn't think anyone else merited my list of those-I-cannot-get-within-10-miles-of-thanks-to-restraining-orders, but I was totally wrong. Or perhaps that should be toadally wrong (that's not punny).

A friend and mutual Bale lover (he's heterosexual*) recently sent me a link pointing out the uncanny resemblance between Bale and Kermit the Frog. Apparently, this has been circulating the tubes for a while, but I had somehow missed it. Regardless, I can't believe I never noticed Kermit's striking good looks. He's obviously Bale's froggelganger (someone stop me).

I was raised on Sesame Street; watched The Muppet Show religiously on Friday nights; and saw every muppet movie ever created - including the horrifically bad Muppets from Space (you're not a real fan unless you endure muppets singing "Celebration").

Sure, I liked Kermit and all but da-yummm. I can honestly say I never noticed how smoking hot Kermit is until I saw how much he looks like my boy Bale. After a little research, I learned the frog has some Bale badassiness, too. Here Kermit is losing it on set.

Oh, Miss Piggy. I get it now. No wonder you've never really moved on. You know what they say: once you've had frog, you're not the same hog.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

It's back-to-school time already, and your child's new teacher has discovered you don't work full-time. She's already dropped a few hints at orientation about having you organize school parties and serve as a PTO officer.

Panicked that you just got the kids out of the house and now you might have to join them and 27 of their classmates in school regularly?

Don't be.

Instead, follow my stellar, super-awesome, back-to-school mothering examples, and you won't have to worry about the school staff asking you to volunteer. You'll never have to say "no" to those sweet, puppy-dog-eyed teachers because you'll never be asked to help. With Anything. Ever.

I accidentally learned how not to be involved last year, when I completed my daughter's middle school paperwork after a night out at a Paolo Nutini concert in Nashville. I drove two hours to Nashville that afternoon; attended the (amazing) Paolo concert, where I danced non-stop, shouted "I love you" to random musicians, tried to catch Paolo's sweat and possibly threw my training bra on stage; scarfed down some post-concert munchies at the Waffle House; and drove two hours home. That kind of outing was a rare treat for me, and after a long, fun night, I didn't get back until near dawn.

Unfortunately, I had a full day of errands ahead me, so I couldn't go straight to bed. If I had been a young college gal, no problem. Heck, we didn't even go out until near midnight. But I'm old, as in, I-watch-CSPAN-for-entertainment and fall-asleep-by-10 p.m. old. I can't stay up all night anymore and function normally.

Too bad I didn't realize this at the time. I was tired, but I thought I was mostly fine.

One of my errands that day was my daughter's middle school registration. We arrived at her new school to meet her teachers, who promptly handed me the requisite book of paperwork. Seriously. It's at least eleventy-billion forms requiring names, social security numbers, addresses, birth dates, phone numbers, more phone numbers, emergency contacts and my second cousin's husband's inseam.

I promptly sat down, rubbed my bleary eyes, diligently completed the forms and handed them to the school staff. Returning home, I decided sleep was necessary when I saw what I thought was Gary Coleman (God rest his soul) lounging naked on my kitchen counter. In reality, it was a half-eaten package of mini chocolate donuts, but I digress.

Fast-forward a week into the new school year. The phone rings, and the woman on the other end identifies herself as my daughter's middle school counselor. She tells me she's been reviewing Kelsey's paperwork and has a few questions for me. Fire away, I told her.

Counselor: First of all, Mrs. X. Is that, in fact, your name? Mrs. X?**Me: Yessss.Counselor: Okay. I wasn't sure. Is your name Kelsey, too? Or is that just your daughter's name?Me: Noooooo. My name is Jennifer.Counselor: You put down on the form that your name was "Kelsey".Me: Oh. Ha. Nope, that's my daughter.Counselor: And does Kelsey work outside the home full-time, Mrs. X? Me: Um, no. She's only 12.Counselor: Alright. You said Kelsey worked as a teacher at the high school.Me: No, no. That's her dad.Counselor: Is his name Kyle? Me: Wow. No, that's Kelsey's brother. Her dad's name is Jeff.Counselor: Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okaaaay. (Although I was on the phone, I could see her shaking her head at me.) And does her dad have a cell phone number?Me: Yes.Counselor: 'Cause you said his phone number was "7." That's all you put down. Seven. Can we maybe get the other digits?

As her inquest continued, all I could do was giggle. I didn't know how to explain my lapses to her because I didn't think, "Well, you see, I went to a concert the night before registration and was out all night long" was going to help the counselor's first impression of me. I'm pretty sure she had me pegged as a meth head. Or an idiot. Or a meth head idiot fathered by my uncle brother.

So I laughed, gave her the correct information, apologized profusely and hung up, knowing the middle school staff was undoubtedly wondering how such a bright girl came from such a dense mother. I was mortified, but there was a silver lining: No one at the middle school ever contacted me again to help with any of the school events. In fact, I'm pretty sure they posted my photo around the school district, warning staff of my significant lack of brain cells.

Ashamed and embarrassed, I was determined to be a better, more-involved parent this school year. I did not attend any concerts the night before my kiddos' school registrations, and I painstakingly completed and proofread all the forms before handing them in to school staff.

Why, I even rushed to Target as soon as I saw the first back-to-school commercial to buy all the required school supplies, so I wouldn't be one of those frazzled, impatient, last-minute parents elbowing other frazzled, impatient parents in the Crayola aisle the night before school starts.

I was so proud of myself as I checked items off my son's second-grade supply list, conveniently mailed earlier in the summer by the school. This year will be different, I thought, as I filled the cart with glue sticks and composition notebooks. This year, I will be Super School Mom: faster at buying school supplies than any parent; more powerful than last year's PTO president; able to complete school forms with a single pen...

So last night, on Back-To-School-Eve, I smugly filled backpacks with supplies purchased weeks ago. Both children had bathed, brushed their teeth and were easily on track for bedtime. Their outfits were carefully laid out on their dressers; their lunch boxes were partially packed; and their names were written neatly in all their bright, shiny folders.

As I put the final items in Kyle's bag, he turned to me and said, "Are you sure we have everything I need, Mom?"

We quickly moved down the list:One large box of Kleenex? Check.A package of dry erase markers? Check.Pencil pouch? You betcha!

One material/cloth covered binder that closes with a zipper?

Uh. What was that?

One material/cloth covered binder that closes with a zipper?

Oh. No.

No check. Did you hear me? No check! Code Red! We have a Code Red, people!

As a nervous Kyle handed me the list, I noticed it for the first time: the large, bold-faced type in the middle of the list informing me that I am, in fact, a total doofus. Here's a photo of the list, in case you need proof of my dooftastity:

Yes, in case YOU, for some inexplicable reason, failed to notice the giant, bold, capitalized, exclamation-pointed type in the middle of the list (boy, that would make you some kind of an idiot, wouldn't it?), it reads:

1 Material/cloth covered binder that closes with a zipper...must have 3 large metal rings inside. This is the MOST IMPORTANT item on the list! It is a MUST! If your child shows up on the first day of school without this VERY IMPORTANT binder, you are a sorry, no-good, piece of crap parent! We will frown every time we see you and think how incredibly heartbreaking it is that your child has you - a MORON - for a mom. WE'RE NOT KIDDING!

Oopsie. Guess what school supply I didn't have for my anxious, type-A son, who so desperately wanted to make a great impression on his first day of second grade?

Kelsey, so relieved it wasn't her who looked stupid this school year thanks to her mother's ineptness (at least not yet), doubled over in laughter when she saw the list. "Way to go, Mom!" she said, "You took a big ol' ride on the FAIL WHALE!"

Needless to say, I rushed both kids out of their pajamas, hopped in the minivan and drove 80 miles-an-hour to the nearest office supply store, where I elbowed those frazzled, last-minute parents out of the way and paid a small fortune for the best darn cloth-covered binder that closes with a zipper and has three large metal rings inside.

No way was I going to be the Loser Parent this year. NO. WAY.

But it's safe to say I probably won't nominate myself for PTO President anytime soon. I bet after reading this, no one else will nominate me either.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Sorry the posts have been sporadic at best this summer. The family has been home for summer vacation, so writing has taken a backseat as I've soaked up precious time with my favorite fellow porch sitters.

And honestly, it's more challenging to write with Mario Bros. blaring beside me than I anticipated. On that note, how is Mario tough enough to bust through brick walls, and yet, get his ass kicked by a caterpillar? These are the things that keep me up nights.

In spite of enduring endless Wii games; hearing "I'm bored" approximately five gazillion times; and refereeing arguments about who ate the last Eskimo Pie (um, I did, but don't tell the kids. It's way more entertaining when they blame each other), I have thoroughly enjoyed another summer with the kids, who are growing up far too quickly. But they'll return to school next week, and despite how many times I've wished for it the past eight weeks, I'll undoubtedly find myself sad about my quiet house (Shut up! I will, too! For at least five whole minutes!).

When the gang gets back into a routine, I hopefully will, too. Then the posts should become more regular again. If only Jamie Lee Curtis could spoon-feed my blog some of that Activia yogurt to get it going .... I'll work on that.

In the meantime, here's a couple of my favorite porchees, doing the summer porch thang. As you can see, we take porch sitting very seriously around these parts.

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Important Legal Mumbo Jumbo: Unless otherwise indicated, all writing on this site is held under a copyright by Jennifer Jenkins Reese. In addition, personal photos posted on this site may not be used without my permission. To sum up: please don't steal my stuff.